


That Wasn't on the Itinerary

by tullypoems



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drunken Flirting, F/F, Feelings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Minor Violence, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Romance, Scotland, mostly just being on holiday in scotland hanging out and talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 18:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9620969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tullypoems/pseuds/tullypoems
Summary: Zarya and Tracer wind up on shore leave together in Edinburgh at Hogmanay, a routine vacation in a city with no known Talon presence.But when one of you is the face of Overwatch, and the other a 6'5'', pink-haired weightlifter, it's hard to keep a low profile for long.Or, here's what happens when two heroes from the smoochiest rag-tag group of misfits in the world hang out and talk about their feelings.





	1. Arrivals

‘ _Cabin crew ready for landing, landing in five minutes. Thank you._ ’

‘You’re going to _love_ Edinburgh, Aleks!’, Tracer trilled, bopping gently on the window seat. ‘There’s awesome _galleries_ , and a huge _hill_ , and - _oh my god_ \- and the _sea_ food luv, I can taste it now…’

‘They make mints for that, Lena,’ Zarya mumbled underneath her eyemask. Her left elbow spilled over into the part of Tracer’s seat left free when she pressed her face against the window. The seat on her right was piled with food and magazines, after Zarya persuaded the flight attendant to leave it free. Tracer wasn’t listening.

‘I can’t wait to show you everything! Our first shore leave together… I’m so glad all the details worked out. Usually everyone has plans!’

Zarya said nothing.

She had been looking forward to a week on a beach with Mei, reading trashy fiction, drinking something with a toxicity warning. At short notice Mei had been called to an emergency climatology conference and Overwatch reallocated their vacation grant. Flying coach to Scotland had been within her personal budget. Just. At the edge of her hearing, a child screamed.

She peeled off her mask and blinked. Definitely still in an aeroplane. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth.

‘Tell me a story, Lena.’

‘A story!?’

‘Yes. This place – why is it important to you.’

‘Aaaa! Where to start – OH. So. I was seven and my gran was on tour with her bowls team, and there was this _lovely_ old lady named Dorothy who told us all these war stories! I’m sure I’ve told you about them, they both worked in a factory? Well, _Dorothy_ …’

‘Yes, this is good,’ Zarya sighed. In a few seconds she was asleep.

\---

‘This is t-shirt weather.’

The airport bus had deposited them on an old bridge by the railway station. Adjacent was a Christmas market: the smell of fried sugar and cinnamon, the flashing lights of a ferris wheel, and some kind of monument that looked like the unholy union of a rocket and a cathedral. Though mid-winter, there was no snow on the ground, no frost in the air, and the crowd moved slowly and comfortably. Zarya guesstimated four hundred souls in the visible sector of the market alone.

She squeezed the bridge of her nose. _Vacation, Zaryanova_. _Off duty_.

‘I um Aleksandra Zaryanova,’ came a voice clearly straining to manage basic levels of bass. ‘I feel not your puny british vinter.’

‘I do not sound like that.’

‘Pffffft, look, you don’t have to impress anyone, just wear what makes you comfy!’ Tracer sported thick joggers the same rich yellow and orange as her combat gear, an extra-fleecy pilot jacket and a fuzzy scarf big enough to double as a survival shelter. Her accelerator was cunningly disguised under a snowman Christmas sweater.

Zarya shrugged off her winter coat and surveyed the area. The crowd was seeing in the year’s midnight with outfits as colourful as her travelling partner’s, with omnics and humans flowing around each other like ambulatory rainbows. She wondered if there was a Scottish government subsidy for hair dye. She tried to remember the last time her shock of pink had felt so bland.

‘Come on, luv, let’s get you some mulled wine. Or… unmulled if you’re hot already. Whatever. ALCOHOOOOOOL!!’ Tracer sang and skipped to the nearest wooden cabin. Zarya rolled her shoulders and strolled over, hands in pockets.

‘A German market is the first thing we do in Scotland? What’s the connection? Would Reinhardt know?’

‘Billy Bighammer _probably_ wouldn’t approve of a German market that’s been going so long it’s Scottisher than tartan.’ Tracer spun round with a mug of something dark and smelling almost offensively festive. She kneeled and presented it like a goblet to a high priestess. ‘My lady. Drink this.’

‘Enough of that, people are staring.’ She took the hot brew and sipped it tentatively. It was good. Zarya felt hours of air travel melt from her bones, the hundreds of miles in stiff seats for tiny people fade like a dream.

‘It’s okay.’

‘It’s – _what!_ ’ Tracer pouted. She turned dramatically to the omnic bartender. ‘Sorry, Maggie, she has _no taste_.’ Maggie shrugged, her face inscrutable. Zarya rolled her eyes. ‘Thank you, Maggie,’ she smiled charmingly, to no detectable avail. She looked back into her drink. She wondered what Mei would have made of it. Mei was a people person.

Tracer tucked her non-wine-bearing arm into Zarya’s and steered her towards the promenade. Zarya allowed herself to be steered.

‘So!’

‘So.’

They walked in silence a little way. A pair of kids ran in wild patterns around them, playing some esoteric variation on tag Zarya couldn’t quite follow.

‘…how are youuuuu?’

Zarya raised her wine to her lips and shrugged. ‘I am fine. I am in a beautiful city with a dear friend. I have my first three days of vacation in months. It is Christmas-time.’

Tracer pursed her lips. ‘Those sure are some facts, Ally.’ She frowned. ‘Hm. If you could do anything right now, like, within reason, what would make you happiest?’

‘Anything?’

***

The hotel gym was surprisingly well-stocked.

‘Aaaaand set!’ Zarya whooped as she carefully replaced the bar on the squat rack. From the treadmill, Tracer reckoned it at about three-and-a-half Tracers.

‘Want to lift, Lena?’ Zarya panted.

‘Ha! I’m flattered, but I’m built for speed. Lithe and flexible-like, yeah?’ Tracer demonstrated with some arguably balletic movements.

‘Strength and flexibility go hand in hand, Lena. You only run, you are only good for running. I could teach you a thing or two.’

Tracer fanned herself. ‘Ooo miss _Zarya_ miss, this is my first time in a gymnatorium, what are reps please?’

Zarya patiently removed the majority of the weights from the bar. ‘There. You give me twelve squats and we do whatever you want all this weekend.’

In a blur of pale blue light Tracer was in place. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

Moments later the weights clunked back onto the rest and a smirk crossed Tracer’s face. ‘Ta-daa.’

‘Hmf. How does your back feel?’

Tracer did not pause from her victory dance. ‘Like a million bucks, Ally.’

‘Seriously, Lena, your form is terrible. I bet there is a small dull pain in your lower back, am I right?’

Tracer gyrated a little more stiffly. ‘Mmmmaybe…’

‘Come here.’ Zarya removed the remaining plates. ‘Show me again, take it slow.’ Tracer obliged. ‘There. You have long legs, yes?’

‘Sweet of you to notice.’

‘It affects your centre of gravity.’ She grabbed two small plates and set them on the floor behind Tracer, about shoulder width apart. ‘Rest your heels on these and do it again.’

Tracer obliged. ‘Woah! That’s awesome. It’s like going down in a lift. Bing! Heh heh.’

‘This is not _my_ first time in a gymnatorium, Lena.’

Tracer looked sheepish. ‘Sorry, heh. Thanks for the tip!’

‘I live to serve. Another twelve and the night is yours.’

***

At the restaurant Zarya persuaded the server to allow her a protein shake alongside a wildlife-endangering volume of seafood curry. She tipped appropriately. The pair strolled towards the centre of town.

‘There’s a cracking pub round the corner if you’re in the mood for _un_ _petit digestif_?’ Tracer’s French accent was as good as all her other accents. Zarya hummed approvingly.

Tracer pushed open the door to a small wave of warmth, all boozy body heat and gentle hubbub. One wall was taken up by a large oak wood mantelpiece, its gas fire burbling happily, an elderly couple warming their boots. Around the walls, the butts of whisky casks with faded stencil branding, a well-worn bodhrán, a clutch of framed mirrors with the logos of long-retired breweries. Tracer’s shoulders visibly relaxed. Zarya’s eyes lit up.

A shelf, at least four deep, of whisky bottles, pale and amber and gold and ruby.

‘Lena, you are a filthy genius.’ She ruffled her already-chaotic mop and pulled up a pair of stools at the bar, motioning toward a suitable malt. ‘Here. My treat.’

‘Cheers, luv.’

It was like a log fire made of the seaside with a strawberry on top.

It was something similar the second time round.

Soon afterwards they decided no one was counting.

‘-and _that’s_ why Jesse, Jack and Fareeha are werewolves, Amélie, Satya and Hanzo are vampires.’ Tracer smacked her glass down on the bar to close the discussion.

‘You… have strong feelings about this.’

‘Ya gotta know who you’re workin’ with!’ Tracer shrugged extravagantly.

Zarya rested her chin on her fist, elbow on the bar. ‘So what am I?’

Tracer spluttered. ‘Well if it narrows it down, you’re not exactly the tall dark and mysterious type.’

‘Nonsense. I am at least two of those things,’ Zarya protested drily, ‘I could be an excellent vampire.’

‘Pah!!’ Tracer doubled over, slapping the bar.

‘Hey! No vun besmirches Baron von Zaryanova. I vill have your blood!’ Zarya hissed and lunged. Tracer squealed abruptly, swooning into Zarya’s arms.

‘No! My maidenly virtue, my only weakness!’ She growled, whipping the back of her hand to her forehead, her free hand smooshing Zarya’s face. ‘I’ll never submit! You’ll just have to _ravish me_!’

Zarya blinked.

‘I was not sufficiently invested for that.’

‘I win?’

She rolled her eyes, but grinned. ‘You win.’

‘Yeah!!’ Tracer leapt back to a vertical position. ‘Two more please barkeep, this tall drink of water’s payin’.’

Zarya obliged.

‘So. You’re into vampires.’

‘Fff- well, yeah! Who isn’t?’

‘And “Amélie” is a vampire.’

Tracer gave her a straight look. ‘You’re going there?’

‘Humour me.’

Tracer held her smirk a moment. She exhaled through her nose. ‘Okay. We’ve been… seeing each other. Off duty. Very low key.’

Zarya raised an eyebrow. ‘“Low key”? You are the face of Overwatch and she is –’

‘I know who she is.’ Tracer held her drink close to her body, gazing down into the glass tinged blue by the dim light of her accelerator. ‘She’s my friend, and no one knows her like I do.’

Zarya grunted softly. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried –’

‘No! No. It’s fine, I don’t mind talking about her. With _you_ anyway. It’s actually kinda lovely, we just haven’t seen each other in a while.’

‘That is not a fun feeling.’

‘No,’ Tracer smiled sadly. ‘Y’know, you two would get along famously, I reckon. You’re both…’ She fumbled at the air for the right word.

‘Strong?’

‘Ha! Strong. But, in a _real_ way. Like, nothing seems to get to you, you have this… _calm_.’

‘Uh-huh? You want to know a secret?’ Zarya smiled conspiratorially.

‘Christ, always.’

‘I carry postcards from Mei around in my travel bag so I don’t get lonely.’

‘Hahaha aw, Aleks, that is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard!’

‘Cute? You have not read the postcards.’

Tracer’s eyes were dinner plates.

‘EeeeeeeeEEEEE!! that is so HOT! FUCK, Aleks! You guys have a dirty postcard relationship!?’

Zarya looked cheekily proud. ‘Yeah! Mei is not the delicate flower some people think she is. I do not think I was ever with someone who… simply knows what she wants.’ She sipped her whisky, savouring the soft burn. Even a handful in, it was as fresh as the first. ‘When either of us is travelling for a long time, we have… an agreement.’

‘An agreement,’ Tracer repeated.

‘Yes.’

‘And what might you have _agreed_ upon, Pink Baron?’

She spoke slowly, selecting her words. ‘That if certain _possibilities_ arise, with no strings, and so on, then… we can pursue those possibilities.’

‘That is weirdly sweet.’

‘As long as we write a postcard about it.’

Tracer choked on her whisky.

‘Holy… [hakkk] shit… [wheeeeze] Aleks youneedtowarnme [KOFF] next time you’re about to do something sexy.’

‘I win?’

Tracer groaned. ‘You got me. Barkeep!’

‘My name’s Gregor if you like.’

‘Barkeep, two of the same _pour favour_.’

Gregor obliged.

‘So…’ Tracer scanned the room. ‘Any _possibilities_ around here?’

‘Lena, I conservatively estimate the average age here to be sixty.’

‘Ana Amari is sixty.’

‘Point taken.’ She sighed. ‘Bahhh. I’m not in the mood. You: share as I have shared please.’

‘Heh. Okay. What would you like to know? How slumber party are we going here?’

‘I do not know what that means, Lena.’

‘Slumber party? Like when you go round your mate’s house and stay up all night telling stories and playing video games and… having… sexual awakenings, maybe?’ Tracer’s voice rose steadily throughout.

‘I do not think _you_ know what that means, Lena.’

‘I have read a lot of fanfic, Aleks, and that is my best understanding.’

‘Okay. When did you both, you know, make it out together.’

‘Okay, so we first hooked up – remember when we raided that Talon base in Barcelona last year? Jack spotted sniper fire from the roof so I went to do some recon, blah blah blah, we got ourselves into a total stalemate. Couldn’t get her, she couldn’t get me. So I thought, fuck it, what’s the worst could happen and called her name, her real name.’

Zarya unblinkingly sipped at her whisky.

‘And she called back _my_ name and we talked. Eventually I threw away my pistols and came out from my position, so did she, and we just… held each other. For a long time.’

‘And _then_ the dry humping happens?’

Tracer punched her shoulder, mostly playfully. ‘Dude! Havin’ a fucking moment here.’

‘I apologise with my whole heart.’

Tracer glared at her over her eyebrows. ‘SO. We arranged to meet, off comms, off radar, I _still_ was half convinced she was going to try to kill me, but I’ve got out of worse scraps, so _whatever_...’ Her gaze became distant for a moment. ‘You never knew Amélie, right?’

Zarya assented. ‘Before my time.’

‘Amélie was so wonderful. Graceful, kind, thoughtful, legs ‘til Tuesday… She meant a lot to me, Aleks. And… whoever this person is, she isn’t Amélie anymore, not entirely, not the way she was.’ Her eyes were glassy, maybe from the whisky, probably not. ‘But she’s not this Widowmaker horror story either. She’s a real person, she remembers me… but she doesn’t remember… you know, _us_. It’s like a new start and starting again all at once. UGH that makes no fucking _sense_! Heh. I guess none of it does.’ Tracer half-smiled.

Zarya wrapped a hand round her friend’s shoulder. Tracer met it with her thumb. The snowman on her sweater glowed amiably.

‘Thanks. luv.’ She sighed deeply and audibly, almost a groan. ‘So we’ve talked a lot, we know _this_ is a possibility, that there’ll be weeks, months even where we don’t see each other, can’t communicate safely. What choice have we got? Yeah, it’s an ‘open’ thing,’ she used airquotes. ‘I mean, my heart’s doing backflips just thinking about her, but what kind of relationship can we have? It’s like loving a dream.’

Zarya exhaled and nodded slowly. She took a small sip of her drink. ‘You have told many of this?’

Tracer shook her head. ‘God no. Angela’d march me off for perpetual counselling.’

‘Then I am a steel trap, my friend.’

Tracer slumped over and headbutted Zarya’s shoulder. ‘Oh… for fuck’s sake why are you so nice?’ she managed, and grabbed her in a bear hug. She pushed a fist across her nose. ‘ _Ugh_ whisky always brings out my dramatic side. Thanks for listening. I know I can go on a bit.’

Zarya shrugged. ‘Nothing about what we do is easy, darling. If you can fight for your life three days a week and still have love in your heart, you do not let _anyone_ tell you you are wrong, right?’

Tracer sniffled. ‘Right.’

‘Tequlia shots?’

‘ _TEQUILA SHOTS’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first ever fic, so all feedback is very much appreciated.
> 
> Basically these two characters are my faves and I wanted to see what would happen if they spent time together, and if Zarya had a little more depth than the usual "HELLO I AM HUGE LIKE BEAR" in the background thing.


	2. Settling In

Zarya came round to the shuffle of careful footsteps on the carpet round her bed. Adrenaline took over instantly and she performed a textbook combat roll straight into the bedside table and onto the floor. Tracer sat down at the coffee table by the window, sipping at a bright pink mug, plonking a second one down opposite her.

‘Mornin’ slugger!’

Her voice sounded like feedback at a metal concert. Zarya steadied the bedside lamp from its death-defying wobble and pushed the sheets down from her face. She levelled her breathing and gradually brought the scene into focus. A small room, (apparently one in which Tracer felt safe), a bed with one set of pillows (she had slept alone), no sound of traffic (they were not in the city centre), Tracer present and apparently correct (she had drunk more than Tracer; this is not to say she had outdrunk Tracer).

‘Um. Aleks? You look like you’re having trouble farting.’

Zarya shot her a look that had been known to bring sleeplessness and night terrors to grown adults.

Tracer’s shit-eating grin lit the room.

‘Bring me coffee or bring me death, Lena.’

‘Fresh outta death but this stuff would prob’ly cure it.’

Zarya threw the duvet back in place. Tracer nearly choked on her coffee.

‘Jesus! Hide your shame!!’

Zarya pressed her eyes with both hand. ‘You have seen the field of war untold times but the human body you cannot behold.’

‘Luv, your body is a temple at which I long to worship but it’s a bit much for 9am on a Sunday.’ Tracer grabbed a bundle of clothes off the floor and threw them in Zarya’s direction. Zarya obliged. The vest read ‘BEAR HUGS’ in multi-coloured sharpie, the yoga pants looked well-loved. She sat down gingerly on the armchair and took her coffee.

‘Come to me, my love.’ Zarya drank it in. ‘How come _you_ are as fresh as some daisies.’

Tracer knocked on her accelerator. ‘It’s amazing what technology can do for an already speedy metabolism. I’ve been out for a run already. This is my third cuppa!’

Zarya inhaled deeply. She just couldn’t be cranky at her. She gauged Tracer’s bubbliness at around 85% sincerity, 15% schadenfreude, and given their nocturnal adventure, that probably just qualified as generous. ‘I have embarrassing question.’

‘Shoot’

‘Where are we?’

Tracer looked _deeply_ , _ironically,_ _concerned_. ‘My darling,’ she touched Zarya’s hand, ‘I am _so_ glad you asked.’ She twirled out of her seat and grabbed a pamphlet off the couch and held it aloft like a hymnal.

‘You have the honour of staying in the palace formerly known as Holyroodhouse,’ she declaimed, ‘which was reclaimed by the Scottish government after independence. It is now a co-operative hostel for artists of all genres, housing over two hundred self-catered apartments and studios, _like this very room_ ’ – she gestured broadly – ‘the largest of its kind in western Europe! How ‘bout that, ey?’

Zarya peered at her friend. ‘We are stealing space from needy artists.’

Tracer jutted her chin in thought. ‘I studied art history at college?’ she offered.

‘I was not consulted about this. What happened to that nice place with the gym and the delightful breakfast?’

‘We got there at 3am, remember? The night manager had some choice words then you tried to flip his car with your bare hands.’

‘ _Tried_? I am getting rusty.’ Tracer glared at her. ‘I will write a note of apology.’

Zarya sighed, smooshed a palm into her eye and screwed up her face. ‘Lena, listen, are you okay? I did not mean to haul up… painful feelings during our fun vacation.’

‘Pffft,’ Tracer blew her fringe out of her eyes. ‘You’ve met our gang, yeah? It’s not a party until at least three battle-hardened death merchants have confessed undying love for each other.’

‘Seriously my friend.’

Tracer held her gaze. ‘Seriously? I’ve been sitting on that stuff for a while.’ Her shoulders sagged for a moment, before she caught herself and drew back to her full height. ‘You were the best friend I could ask for. You gave me the space I needed, you didn’t judge. You’re a good egg, Aleks.’

‘As are you, Lena,’ Zarya smiled broadly. ‘Thank you for keeping me safe and sound last night.’ She grimaced a little. ‘Speaking of eggs… tell me you brought breakfast when you are running.’

A bright _ding_ came from the kitchenette. ‘Right on _cuuuuuuueeee_ -‘ Tracer blinked round the corner and back, reappearing with a huge, sloppy bread roll in each hand, overflowing with eggs, bacon, hash browns, and something black and grainy that looked a little like a burger patty. ‘ _Bon appetit_ , _cherie_!’

‘Which is mine?’

‘They’re both yours, luv, I ate mine an hour ago.’

‘Lena, when I say this, I mean this,’ Zarya stood and looked into Tracer’s eyes. ‘You are,’ she emphasised each word, ‘the best person, in the world.’ Without breaking eye contact she took a roll from Tracer’s hand and shoved as much in her face as humanly possible. It was at that moment Aleksandra Zaryanova tasted haggis for the first time.

And. She. _Fucking. Loved it._

***

At Tracer’s insistence (invoking the terms of their squat-bet) they visited the in-house gallery. The attendant, a miniscule old lady in a green tweed suit, explained that – _technically_ – the gallery wasn’t open to the public, being new year’s eve and all, but she understood the power it had for curious young artists (the way she rolled the r in _curious_ turned Tracer’s heart to jelly). She passed Tracer the key, told her _not to get in too much trouble!_ and with a wee wink at Zarya, pottered off toward the common room. Zarya sipped her second coffee, feeling distinctly closer to human.

‘Aleks, I want her to adopt me please.’ Zarya smiled and held the heavy oak door open after Tracer had unlocked it. Tracer slipped the key into the pocket of her leather jacket and curtseyed inside.

The gallery was small but elegant, housing an eclectic permanent collection and a visiting exhibition on Impressionism. Their sneakers echoed softly on the polished wood floor. ‘C’mere,’ Tracer whispered, hooking her arm through Zarya’s and drawing her into the space. ‘Take a look at this!’

‘Why are we whispering? There is no one else here.’

Tracer shrugged. ‘Did you ever go to church when you were little?’

‘Of course. Not in a while. Why?’

‘My old mum was wild about churches. Her folks never went, but she did. Never when there was a service, though, only when it was quiet, like this, right? She just wanted to look at the windows, the statues, these hundreds-year-old things some talented bastard had taken poor folks’ donations to make.’

Zarya took another sip and waited for a point to emerge.

‘One day she took me along to St Paul’s, just before she, y’know, passed, sat me down in a pew and told me to just… be. Don’t run round like a headless chicken: don’t play with your games, just breathe.’ Tracer hadn’t let go of Zarya’s arm as they arrived at their destination. ‘So I strained my neck looking at this place, angels in the rafters, rainbows coming through a window of Christ and Mary and crosses and shepherds and stars, my heart going like the clappers, right? Then she took my hand, looked me in the eye and said _Lena_ , _there’s no heaven nor hell. There’s nobody here but us chickens, but fuck me it’s fun to make believe_.’

Zarya smiled, a little crooked smile Tracer hadn’t seen before. ‘I _think_ I understand.’

Tracer chuckled, ‘Ahh she was a funny old bird. Tough, too. Always did what she could for me. These places remind me of her.’ Zarya gave her hand a squeeze.

‘I am sure she is very proud.’

‘I know she is.’ Tracer sighed and shifted her feet a little. ‘ _Right_ ,’ she clapped her hands suddenly and rubbed them together briskly, ‘so, here we are, Gallery Attendant Oxton, _hhhat_ _chore_ service,’ she raised an invisible cap, her cockney accent turned up to eleven. ‘Would the fabulous Russian gentlelady kiiiindly direct ‘er attention towards the present canvas.’

‘Lena, if there is any other thing you need to discuss, I want to–’

‘ _NOPE_ sorry miss, our scheduled minute of angst has _LEFT_ the station and now we’re looking at the pretty pictures innit.’

‘You are ridiculous.’

‘I live to please,’ Tracer grinned, returning to her usual register.

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Zarya turned her full attention to the painting. A small thing, no more than two-by-three feet, of what looked like two haystacks in a snowy field. The stacks were pointed, like tiny straw cottages, and cast long blue shadows. The sky was a fierce orange, and the frosty scene felt radiant, warm, safe. ‘It is beautiful.’

Tracer nodded vigorously. ‘It’s by Monet! He did _tons_ of paintings of the exact same place for like _months_ , just to make a point about how light changes everything, how the _way_ light changes is the way _time_ changes! It’s SO _COOL_!!’ She was practically vibrating. ‘Look here-’

She moved far closer to the surface of the painting than was socially acceptable, leaning so her eyes were almost level with the frame. Zarya joined her after making an instinctive scan of the room over her shoulder. ‘Yeah! Look, you can even see the ridges of the paint!’

She was right. If Zarya squinted, the image realigned from a more or less realistic representation of a haystack into the scars and short sweeps of paint, simple chemical stuff transformed into the cadmium yellows and cerulean blues that for all the world could have been real hay, _really_ real, the gestures made by one person’s hand, still here, rippling across a taut sheet of cloth, one hundred and fifty years after that person left this world.

Zarya’s mind crackled and fizzed.

Tracer’s face was very close.

Their eyes met, and for a second the whole planet could have been as peaceful as that one small room, full of art, in a city far from anywhere either of them called home. Tracer touched the broad scar above Zarya’s right eye, and kissed it, very gently.

‘I’m glad you’re here with me, luv.’

‘I am pleased also, little one,’ she smirked. Tracer flicked her eyes at her feet and stood up straight. She held out her hand to be held. Zarya obliged.

‘Awright, Tour Guide Oxton’s off shift, you pick the next one.’

Zarya inhaled slowly and took in as much as she could. Suddenly every frame was overwhelming, the handful of huge classical scenes with horses, dogs and muscle-bound kings too much noise to handle. She turned quickly away until her eye fell on a grey and brown rectangle near the corner. She nodded toward it and they strolled over.

‘I’m having rather a lovely morning with you, Aleksandra Zaryanova.’

To her surprise, Zarya’s heart skipped. ‘If I am honest, this is not what I had expected. You know how to look after me, and I thank you for it.’

‘Softie,’ Tracer whispered, failing to hide the heat in her cheeks.

‘Georges Braque, _Le Bougeoir_ ,’ Zarya read from the information card.

‘ _Ooh la la_ , remind me to remind you to speak French later.’

‘ _Pardonnez-moi_ , Lena, we are _appreciating_ the _art_ ,’ Zarya explained, _very_ sternly. ‘Braque used writing,’ Zarya read, ‘to question the relationship between words and the physical objects they represent. _L’Indépendant_ was a French-Catalan newspaper, a simple clay pipe lies to the centre right, and below it are a bobbin and a pair of scissors.’

‘Heh, _bobbin_.’

‘I like this painting very much.’

Tracer looked up at her. ‘Go on.’

Zarya kept her eyes on the painting. ‘It looks… careful. There is a lot of confusion, but there are all the things from this painter’s life. Small things, home things.’

Tracer gave her hand a squeeze.

Zarya glanced down for a second. ‘When I was little, we did not have much either. And during the omnic attacks we could go weeks without power, and winter was long, and dark. You do not know how valuable a candle can be, in so many ways.’ She sighed. ‘If mama could see me, drinking coffee in a palace of art, with one of the world’s greatest freedom fighters.’

There was a hand on her face. Tracer’s eyes were glassy and searching. ‘Aleks, could… could you hold me, please.’

Zarya grabbed her round the waist and picked her up like she was made of air. ‘Any time, little one,’ she smirked, as Tracer squeaked happily. Tracer ruffed her hands through Zarya’s hair, ran a finger along her jaw, and with a swift forward motion, met her lips with her own. They kissed for what felt like minutes, holding each other tight, a single lingering moment of contact. With a deep sigh, Zarya lowered her partner to the floor, resting her forehead against hers, the smoky heat of coffee on each other’s breath.

Tracer broke the silence. ‘D’you think you’ll write to Mei about that?’

‘Depends how the rest of the trip goes, little one,’ Zarya smirked.

Tracer bopped her on the shoulder. She glanced at the floor. ‘Oh _FUCK_ , your coffee!!’

In the throes of passion Zarya had tossed half a cup across the pristine floorboards. She swore in Russian.

‘What if that nice old lady finds out!?’ Tracer blinked around the room looking for a cleaning cupboard, suddenly reappearing inches from Zarya’s face holding a pair of mops.

‘Lena, it’s 100 millilitres of lukewarm fluid-’

 _‘WHAT IF SHE WON’T BE MY GRANDMA NOW?_ ’

Zarya held her by the shoulders. ‘Lena, breathe. You have had quite an intense few minutes.’

Tracer exhaled, dropped her commandeered hygiene tools and melted into her arms. ‘You’re right, I think we’re due a bit of quiet time.’ She made a noise like a balloon deflating. ‘Hey, that little… thing you did with your tongue, and the hands. Hm,’ she prodded her in the chest, ‘yep, you’ll give a girl all _sorts_ of ideas.’

Zarya chuckled. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘Heh. Any time.’

Zarya smiled and took her up on her offer. Tracer caught her breath as they parted and ran a hand through her mane. They eyed each other up for a moment, quiet and content.

‘I’m serious about the coffee though.’

***

Some swift scrubbing and no shortage of frankly outrageous innuendo later, Tracer led an expedition to a cosy coffee house. They found a perch in the back room under the window, through which the first flakes of snow had started to fall. Tracer came back from the bathroom to find their cocoas waiting, steam meandering upwards, Zarya reading a novel with her snowboots resting on a stool, a pleased smile on her face.

‘Good book?’

‘Mmm.’ She held up the cover. A battered old Rebecca Solnit, written in the darkest days of the Trump administration. Tracer remembered her high school history class, the civil resistance groups that fought back against western fascism. She’d had a poster of the young Solnit on her locker, denim-shirted, wild-haired, clear-eyed. Her heart swelled.

‘Cor, I read that when I was a kid! I was in a punk band back in the big smoke, Lena and the Big Middle Fingers. Bookworm-by-day, two-minute-justice-screamers-by-night. Seems like ancient history now.’

‘You are twenty-six years old, Lena.’

‘Twenty- _seven_ , thank you. Old as the hills me.’

Zarya took Tracer’s hand and kissed her knuckles. ‘My sweetness, shut up and read something.’

‘Oo er, yes, sir.’ She pulled a comic book out of her bag. On the cover was… Tracer. Zarya raised a pink eyebrow.

‘Wot?’ Tracer protested, ‘It’s _really_ well written. And look at all the babes I get to smooch!’ She turned the centrefold around as evidence.

‘My goodness, Lena.’

‘I _know!_ ’

‘Heh. Well, enjoy your adventures.’

Tracer preened slightly in her chair, took a chomp of her cookie and was soon engrossed.

Before long the sky had turned from a heavy blue to inky black. Snow settled at the corners of the windowpane. Tracer snuck a look at her friend. Her smoochy friend. Zarya took up space. Sometimes at her ease, sometimes by force, always without apology. With one broad bicep tucked around the back of the sofa, Zarya looked like no mortal force could move her.

Tracer felt a sharp, brief pang in her chest. She wanted to be in those arms. She wanted to be wrapped up by a lover, to feel safe and needed. She chugged the last of her cocoa.

‘Room for a little one?’

Zarya scooched up. Tracer blinked across the table and tucked herself under Zarya’s armpit. Zarya curled an arm round and across Tracer’s shoulders as a second round of coffee arrived. Maybe it was her manipulation of spacetime, but Tracer could’ve sworn her heart missed a beat or two. She nuzzled an elbow and closed her eyes, just for a second.


	3. Departures

An excessively pleasant dream was interrupted by a breathy voice at her ear.

‘Lena…’

‘Mmmnnyes sexybuns?’

‘There is a bandit at ten o’clock.’

Tracer checked her nose. ‘You what?’

Zarya didn’t change her tone, or look away from her book, but Tracer sensed her tension. ‘There is a Talon agent in the north-west corner. He has been scoping us out for the last fifteen minutes.’

In an instant Tracer was focused. She would deal with her own tension later. In her peripheral vision a heavy-set man, about 5’10”, elegantly dressed in black and deep blues, ostensibly engrossed in a broadsheet. At his feet, a briefcase. Tracer nonchalantly opened an app on her phone and detected Talon radio frequencies in the area. Out of the side of her mouth she mumbled, ‘Want to give him a show?’

‘If he is here alone he has back-up outside. Does this café have another way out?’

‘There’s the kitchen and the bathroom. Need a distraction?’

‘Why are you so eager to cause a scene?’

Tracer looked up at her.

‘Okay, I take your point. Fine. Do what you must. I will exit through the kitchen and meet you at the rear of the building in two minutes.’

‘Right,’ Tracer stated and started to move. She found a barrier impeding her progress.

Zarya turned Tracer round in her arms and smooched her. ‘More of that if you stay safe.’

‘I’ll be good.’

They shared a smile. Then Tracer jumped on the table.

‘Ladies, gentlebots and handsome queers of Edinburgh!! It is I, Lena “Tracer” Oxton, international freedom fighter and very very gay icon! You may remember me from saving the Doomfist, mastering the fourth dimension and smooching hot ladies in comic books! I shall sign whatever you put in front of me for the next sixty seconds!

A few brightly-coloured teenagers perked up and slalomed happily between tables, rapid-firing questions at Tracer and each other as she dismounted the furniture, breaking line of sight with the agent. Zarya slipped out from behind the table and knocked on the kitchen door. The chef poked his head out and took in the scene, calling for cover from a barista with already too much on her hands. With a grace that belied her frame Zarya slipped through the empty kitchen, grabbing a conveniently abandoned rolling pin en route, and breezing into the alleyway at the rear, gently pulling the door shut behind her. She pulled her hoodie up over her hair, finally grateful for Tracer’s fussing about the weather. A snowless spot in a corner where her footprints wouldn’t give her away. She crouched and waited.

Seconds later the still air broke with a hubbub from the front of the café as the assembled crowd spilled into the street. Even from her hiding place she could hear her partner’s voice above the mass.

‘Thank you for your time, citizens, and for your generous theorycrafting! For the record! Pharah and Mercy are totally doing it! Soldier 76 is indeed Jack Morrison! _Duh!_ McHanzo is real and actually pretty adorable! And now! The city needs me! Be excellent to each other!’

In a _fwip_ and a blink she was stage whispering in the back alley as the last cheers of the crowd rang down the street. Zarya whistled from her corner. Tracer zipped in beside her.

‘Righto, what’s the plan?’

‘Excellent question. We are unarmed, extraction is– ’ Zarya’s phone blipped ‘– two hours away, and we have an unknown number of Talon agents with eyes on us. Meanwhile I am huge and brightly coloured and you have started a social media virus.’

‘ _Really!?_ What are they saying?’ Tracer tried to wrest the phone from her grip, with predictable results.

‘Focus, Lena.’

‘Fine.’

‘We need to get somewhere away from civilians, somewhere dark we can lay low until the Orca shows up at Holyroodhouse. Any ideas?’

Tracer was already holding Zarya by the shoulders and staring wide-eyed and wide-grinned.

‘ _Ohmygodthisisperfectiwasgonnatakeyouanywaybutnowit’sforaMISSION…_ heeeeeeee!!’

Footsteps from the alleyway. A growling voice.

‘ _THEY’RE HERE! NORTH-WEST ALLEYWAY! UNARMED AND ON FO-_ ’

The agent’s intelligence was abruptly curtailed by a projectile wheelie bin. Tracer pilfered his handgun and threw Zarya what looked like a military-grade billyclub. She carefully deposited the rolling pin on the kitchen steps and gestured for Tracer to lead the way. They hurried off into the network of closes that formed Edinburgh’s back streets.

‘Blimey luv, you sure know how to _take out the trash_.’

‘Lena, I remind you I have just concussed a man.’

‘Oh yeah? Got any other moves at your _disposal?_ ’

‘God I wish my English was not so blindingly excellent.’

‘I’ve certainly never heard you _talk rubbish_.’

Zarya spanked her suddenly across the backside, the sound echoing off the alley walls like a rifleshot. Tracer yelped and sprang clear off the ground.

‘Ohhhkay I already needed a wank earlier and you are _not_ helping.’

‘Is that so…?’

‘Oh Jesus what’s that face what’s that _nooo~!!_ ’

Tracer blinked away in the nick of time before another pink hand tattoo appeared across her haunches. ‘Christ okay! No more puns!’

‘A quick student! Maybe you are a _good girl_ , Lena.’

Tracer bit her lip and made some quick calculations. They’d made decent ground on their pursuers, leaving no physical indication of where they were headed. It would be twenty, thirty minutes maybe, before Talon could sift through the crowd fast enough to get a bead on them.

Time enough.

Tracer jimmied open a stairwell door, grabbed Zarya by the lapels and dragged her inside. For the next few minutes, the alleyway was all but silent.

***

Leaning back and catching her breath, Tracer ran her finger along Zarya’s jaw. She smiled mutely, widely. Zarya cupped her face with her hand.

‘If you say ‘cheers luv’ I will be displeased.’

Tracer laughed and huffed. ‘Gizza minute. Wisecrack sensors… temporarily disabled…’ She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Zarya with a growl. Dropping down again, she gave her head a rattle and furrowed her brows. ‘Okay, so. I care about you very deeply –’

‘– likewise, little one –’

‘ – _good_ , good, yes.’ Tracer’s smile radiated. ‘And we must have many talks and chats about feelings but speaking of feelings feeling has just returned to my legs and my _feeling_ is we are very much in a state of mild peril –’

‘Lena…’ Zarya had lifted Tracer bodily to the stairwell door. From the upstairs landing, a cat mrowled.

‘Yes. Vamonos.’

‘To mild peril?’

Tracer squared her shoulders and marched outside. ‘Very mild.’

‘Lena?’ Zarya caught Tracer’s hand, gently.

She turned. ‘Yes, Ally?’

‘This has been the best holiday I have ever had.’

Tracer punched the air. ‘YUS. And we’re just getting to the good stuff.’ She loaded her commandeered pistol and struck a heroic pose. ‘Let’s feed some ducks.’

***

The moon rose high over Edinburgh. The poet Hugh MacDiarmid once called the city ‘a mad god’s dream’, though centuries of years of mundane, irresponsible statecraft was closer to the truth. The Salisbury Crags loomed over all of it. On a good night, far above the streetlamps, the high-rises, the spire of St Giles and the stadium on Easter Road, there was something close to perfect darkness, an indomitable swatch of wilderness beset on all sides by civilisation. In the rocky valley between the crags and Arthur’s Seat, a broad, narrow pond, home to ducks, geese, swans, moorhens, and, on a chilly night in late December, two of the bravest defenders of justice the world had to offer.

‘Where did you get a scone?’ Zarya whispered, attempting to parse the darkness for threats. It struck her that the preponderant wildfowl could be a source of false positives. _God_ she was awesome at vacations. Tracer was picking off small lumps and pitching them underarm toward a swan.

‘Nice lady at the caff gave me one on the way out,’ Tracer whispered back over her shoulder. ‘And it’s pronounced _scone_.’

‘Noted.’ Tracer dusted the last crumbs from her palms. Zarya was squatting a small way back from the water. She had scratched a small series of pictograms in the dirt. She tapped at it with a small stick. ‘So. Judging from our past encounters we will be dealing with a Talon sleeper cell of four agents –’

‘– three if Mr Bins is still out of action –’

‘– three, correct.’ She made some swift adjustments. ‘We have the advantage of surprise and choice of terrain –’

‘– yer welcome luv –’ Tracer preened.

‘– they have superior numbers, firepower and local knowledge.’ She checked her watch. ‘There is not much time until extraction, but they will likely be scanning for our radio. We go silent until the last minute, yes?’

‘I can be silent!’ Tracer bubbled. ‘One time in flight school I was laconic.’

‘Lena, _mа́len'kaia moia_ : I love you but I will break you.’

Tracer touched her hand. ‘I love you. I love when you speak Russian and I love when you threaten me.’

‘Lena, I pledge to you, that if we get out of this, I will ask Mei if we can borrow her bondage gear.’

Tracer struggled to suppress a scream. ‘You think she’d be okay with that?’

‘She would probably join in.’

Tracer breathed. ‘Those Talon agents are going to be disappointed, for lo, I am already dead.’

Zarya stood, bringing a mighty fist into her palm. ‘Ready to fight some evil Talon rats?’

‘Yeah!’

‘To fight for freedom and the good in all of us?’

‘YEAH!’

‘For art, for love, and for the power of collectivised political organisation!?

‘FUCK FUCKING YES!!’

A yell in the distance. ‘ _Over there!_ ’

‘ _Get em!_ ’

‘ _Der'mo_. Run!’

Gunshots blazed wildly into the darkness. A hundred sleeping fowl raised hell, scattering in all directions. Tracer provided swift cover fire before blinking out of sight. In what felt like slow motion, terrified mallards beat their wings in front of her, a thick veil of feathers and honking. She whistled to a disoriented Zarya, who dived for cover behind a boulder.

‘I’ve got a plan! Watch me, watch their fire, we’re gunna flank ‘em!’ Tracer screamed over the gunshots. Semiautomatics?

‘Flank them? Lena, I am not built for sneaking!’

‘Watch carefully and you won’t have to!! See you on the other side!’

Lena jumped out from cover. Zarya watched her, senses alert, muscles poised.

‘ _HEY DICKHEADS!! FASCISM IS STUPID AND YOU’RE STUPID!!’_

Zarya noted three distinct flashes from the far side of the pond, their fire converging on a spot twenty feet clear of her boulder, passing neatly through the point where Tracer had been standing. Perfect. As the light from the shots subsided, she was gone into the night.

A young, nervous male voice. ‘Did we get her?’

‘If you have to ask, the answer’s ‘no’,’ a growl.

‘Boss says the little one has goddamn timetravel powers. She could be anywhere. In formation, on me, night vision on.’ A woman’s voice, calm, commanding. The sound of hi-tech equipment powering up, a few brave geese flapping back to their positions.

From the east: ‘ _AUTHORITARIAN CONTROL IS AN ILLUSION, JERKS!!_ ’

The nervous man discharged his weapon at thin air. His commander waved at him irritably.

From the west: ‘ _ONLY YOUR PRIDE PREVENTS YOU FROM MAKING COMRADES OF THE DISPOSSESSED!!’_

‘I thought there was only two of them!’ he hissed.

‘Open your fucking ears, Private!’

From the north: ‘ _THE FUTURE IS CLEAR TO STUDENTS OF THE PAST, NUMBNUTS!!_ ’

The commander immediately turned and unloaded a full clip to the south. Silence. Ducks.

A 6’5’’ force of nature barrelled clean through them from the west.

Zarya lowered her shoulders and knocked the wind, breath and last two meals out of the commander. Before the others could react she swung full force with her billyclub into the nervous man’s face, his pistol scuttering into the darkness. Without breaking stride, she was off into the thick heather and the darkness.

The remaining agent checked on her fellows. Breathing, vulnerable. She growled in frustration. The night vision was picking up too many…wait.

 _There_.

‘We surrender!’ she barked, raising her hands. ‘This isn’t worth bloodshed. Let’s talk.’

The figure in her night-vision paused for just a second, peeked out from her cover.

 _Now_.

The clock struck midnight.

New year fireworks lit the sky like high noon.

The agent howled and tore the goggles from her eyes, unloading where her target had been. A dull, blazing pain connected with her cheekbone, and the lights went out.

Zarya shook her stinging knuckles. ‘That is what we do with Nazis, _comrade_.’

Tracer padded over to the scene as Zarya began disarming the prone agents. She put her hand on her back. ‘Aleks.’

Zarya drew her eyes skyward. Every colour, every corner of the city, the huge detonations from the castle, the store-bought displays, bursting in unison, a glorious, fiery rainbow. She glanced back at the incapacitated agent, a deep bruise blooming on her cheek. Her gun was loaded and ready. If the Hogmanay fireworks had been a second late… Zarya watched Tracer as she bathed in the illuminations, smiling fit to burst, shaken, but safe. The year was over, and they’d made it out alive.

In that moment, Zarya remembered many people. She remembered friends and family hurt, killed, driven from their homes by wars no one they knew could explain. She remembered who had helped her and hers, who had turned a blind eye. She thought of every resistant thing she had done, arm in arm with people who looked like her, spoke like her, understood her jokes and her dreams; as times changed, so did her comrades, and as the fireworks accidentally threw up colour combinations of old battalions, movements, resistance cells, she remembered, finally, herself. Every Zarya she had been. She thought of her friends in Overwatch, all she’d learned, slowly at first, defensively, about so many people and their suffering, illuminating so much ignorance in herself she’d had to confront to be a better comrade. She remembered Zenyatta, the afternoon they’d spent together – she remembered Mei chastising, cajoling, bribing her into it – and the long time she’d cried in his metal arms. Now, with three unconscious fascists at her feet and a medium-sized city’s worth of flames kissing the stars, turning the darkness into light, Zarya cried again.

She felt a hand in hers.

‘Look, luv, cavalry’s here.’

Over the ridge, a small transported with a faded stencil logo. Grass shook wildly and flattened as it touched down beside them. A small, angry head poked out the window.

‘You scrubs had a party and didn’t invite me?’

‘Hana!’

The little pilot hopped out of the transporter and surveyed their handiwork, giving the nearest agent a nudge with her boot.

‘Nice work I guess. I’ll put out a bulletin for the local fuzz to come snag ’em.’ She did some alarmingly swift work with cable ties and gags. ‘So, how come you noobs were holding hands just now? Afraid you’ll get lost or something?’

Tracer’s jaw dropped. ‘BUHH WELL THE THING THAT HAD HAPPENED, UM –’

‘Tracer and I have had a sexy weekend,’ Zarya said flatly, ‘and if you so much as breathe a word to anyone before I tell Mei, I will introduce your MEKA to my new insights about cubist metalwork.’

D.Va popped her bubblegum, assessing her options. ‘Whatever,’ she shrugged, hopping back into the cockpit. ‘and here I thought romantic drama was for teenagers.’

Zarya hauled herself into the back. ‘You are wise beyond your years, little bunny.’

‘So what’s the deal anyway, any kinky shit?’

‘ _Oh my god, luv, you are killing me_ ’

‘N’aw, such a precious lil pupper dog, Lena. You’re, like, _crimson_ rn.’

‘You will learn when you’re older. Nothing more exciting than what you and Lúcio have been up to.’

‘Ohhkay. I changed my mind you’re both gross. Don’t get feelings all over my goddamn transporter.’

Tracer tapped on her accelerator experimentally. ‘Wonder if there’s a setting for me to have never experienced the past thirty seconds.’ She slumped into one of the passenger seats, groaning loudly and leaning her head back on the seat’s hard padding.

Zarya clipped herself in next to her and slipped an arm round her shoulder. Tracer glanced up with a half-smile. ‘I really needed this weekend. I know you’re going back to a pretty great deal, but… a selfish part of me hopes… bah, I dunno.’

‘Say what you feel, little one. I am a big girl.’

There was a pained whine from the cockpit. ‘ _I’M PUTTING SOME MUSIC ON UNTIL YOU’RE LESS EMBARRASSING._ ’

Tracer smirked as Lúcio’s newest mix bled through into the passenger hold. ‘You’re a wonderful friend and it was amazing to just be with someone. Someone I love, someone I feel safe with. I just want to show you some of that love in return. Dunno if I’m ready to let that go yet. Feels like our adventure’s just starting.’

‘It was not what you would call a chore for me, little one.’

Tracer flicked her ear. She pulled herself away slightly, watching out the window as the city drew into the horizon, still splashing the sky like a child finger painting. ‘I’m going to talk to Amélie. She needs to know what’s going on with me, and I think I understand a bit better myself.’ She rubbed Zarya’s hand. ‘I can’t let _her_ go either. We’ve been through too much and… and I still love her. I’m ready to fight for her. I need to know you’re okay with that.’

Zarya ran her hand through Tracer’s hair. ‘She could join Overwatch once again, some day. If anyone can make that happen, you can.’ She squeezed her tight against her ribs. ‘I have met a great many people. I have never met anyone so willing to risk everything for what they believe in. You have a big heart, Lena Oxton. I am honoured to have a place in it, as you have in mine.’

Tracer squeezed her back, her face screwed up tight against the tears. ‘Fuck me adulting is hard.’ She wiped her face and exhaled deeply. ‘Mind if I grab forty winks?’

‘I barely know what that means.’

‘See ya in a bit luv. Mebbe get some shuteye yourself, yeah?’

Zarya nodded. She rested her head on Tracers until she felt her breathing grow steady. She spotted a notepad and paper on the seat next to her. She picked it up and removed the pen lid with her teeth.

‘Dearest sexybuns. When the science world returns you to me, we are going to Scotland. And I have so much to tell you…’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this! It's my first stab at a fic, so all feedback hugely welcomed. Really hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Huge HUGE thanks to lovely Muireann and @otherwiseestella for making this a way way better fic than it otherwise would have been. <3 <3 <3


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